“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room.
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